


touch me and then turn away (you put your hands into my flame)

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, tbh i'm not sure how accurate 'comfort' is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 06:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6068206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It figures. Even when they stop talking to one another, they can’t stop <i>talking</i> to one another.</p>
<p>But she can’t help it. Neither can he. </p>
<p>They are who they are, and they will destroy each other only as many times as they will put each other together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	touch me and then turn away (you put your hands into my flame)

**Author's Note:**

> (title from 'Hanging On' by Active Child)
> 
> This fic is the product of three hours wallowing in 3x05 angst while listening to ‘Hanging On’, The Mountain Goats’ ‘No Children’, Sam Smith’s ‘Nirvana’ and Childish Gambino’s ‘Heartbeat’. 
> 
> If you’re looking for a happy ending, I doubt you’ll find one here.

 

 

Clarke blinks away the heaviness in her eyelids. It’s been a while since she’s gotten this drunk; she feels just how long much better than she remembers. There’ve been other things occupying her attention.

 

She glances at Bellamy, his defined features lit aglow by the crackling fire. He’s grinning at something Monty’s saying; they’re probably trading jokes about Jasper’s ongoing arm wrestling match with Miller. His smile is stretched wide, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners.

 

He’s laughing.

 

She doesn’t often see him laugh. No one does. He smiles now and then — a lot more nowadays, she realises. But a real _laugh_ , genuine and hearty; that’s a little harder to come by.

 

Not that making him laugh feels like some sort of responsibility of hers. She’s got enough of those in camp, around the others.

 

She drains her cup with a single gulp, and stands to leave.

 

Fifteen minutes later, they’re in her tent, lips fused urgently to each other’s, sighing into each other’s moonshine-laced breaths. He’s struggling to remove his shirt without breaking contact; she’s struggling with the buttons of his pants. Have they always been this hard to undo?

 

She remembers their last fight, the way he spat at her in front of everyone else. She gives an especially sharp tug on the fly of his jeans at the memory, losing herself in the heat ballooning in her chest. He breaks the kiss then, huffing a mirthless laugh at her impatience before undoing his pants himself.

 

Seconds later, she’s flat on her back, and he’s sliding into her in one hot, wet stroke, anchoring her legs apart with his firm forearms. They groan in unison at the feeling, sweaty foreheads pressed together. They stay like that for a few moments, lips touching but not quite kissing. She can feel him with every breath she draws, full and heavy inside her.

 

Slowly, he pulls back before driving forward into her. His breathing is ragged; so is hers. They’ve both had a fair bit to drink. Even so, he keeps an even, measured pace, sinking as deep as he can within her with every thrust, making her toes curl with the sheer _sensation_ spreading all throughout her body.

 

It doesn’t take long before she starts to return his thrusts, silently pleading for more with the arch of her hips. He growls low and soft into her ear, and tightens his hold on her calves to keep her legs open. He pushes up slightly, so she can see the beads of sweat gathering on his forehead and dripping off his dark curls, his eyes hooded as he picks up the pace. Her left hand clenches tight into the curls at the back of his head, while her right clamps down on the edge of the bed a few inches up over her head to give her something to push against, to keep up. Her breath catches as she watches his eyes snap to her bouncing chest, pupils darkening and dilating instantly. She’d made sure to get her shirt off this time. He’s never said anything about it, but she knows he has an especial fondness for her generous mounds.

 

He dives down to take one breast into his mouth, engulfing nearly half of the creamy globe with no warning. She gasps sharply at the feeling of wet heat suddenly surrounding her sensitive nipple, fingers scratching almost dangerously deep on his scalp as he sucks _hard_. He keeps up the assault for a good while longer, his hips continuously hammering into hers. She moans loudly, unable to control the pressure rising rapidly in her core. He tears his mouth away from her breast to groan heavily; he can feel her walls clenching around him.

 

“Fuck,” he gasps, pushing back up to drive deeper into her. She barely has time to adjust to the wave of fresh pleasure crashing over her at the new angle when his thumb suddenly lands firmly on her clit. He starts to rub, but it’s completely unnecessary — her whole body goes completely rigid, her mouth open in a silent scream as she falls over the edge.

 

He slows down, but keeps thrusting into her, his thumb still on her clit as he lets her ride out her orgasm. She’s breathing heavily, caught in the aftershocks. She’s still dazed, but her eyes find his, their gazes meeting for one long second before he breaks contact, eyes shuttering closed as he speeds up again, chasing his own release. He finds it within seconds, pressing deep into her so she can feel every part of him against every part of her. He collapses on her, face buried in her shoulder as he tries to catch his breath. It’s hard to breathe under his weight, but her arms go around him anyway, sliding across the slick skin of his shoulders.

 

Two minutes later, he’s stepping out of her tent and she’s pulling on the older long-sleeved shirt she sleeps in. She crawls back into bed and lays on her back, staring unseeingly at the roof of her tent, the dull pounding of alcohol consumed not one hour ago slowly dissipating.

 

He never stays. She never asks him to.

 

 

 

* * *

  

 

 

They haven’t spoken since she came back.

 

Things have blown over, more or less. Raven is better now, able to spend more hours on her feet before she has to sit down, her face greying with the effort. Monty and Jasper don’t talk anymore, but they’ve found new companions to talk with, to laugh with. Even Kane and Abby find it difficult to hold back the smiles whenever they’re in the same room. Everyone’s learned to or is learning to move on, to build and rebuild their lives.

 

It feels like she and Bellamy are the only ones stuck in some sort of limbo, some suspension of time where the past, the present and the future intersect — always flitting back and forth between the three, never with both feet firmly in one.

 

It started the day Octavia left.

 

Clarke had watched from across camp as his sister had wrapped her arms around him, her cheek pressed to his shoulder as her embrace tightened. She’d pulled away, and he and Lincoln had shared a long look before both men nodded at each other wordlessly.

 

She’d watched as Octavia and Lincoln disappeared into the trees. Helios serenely followed behind them, loaded with supplies and what meagre belongings the couple owned.

 

Later at night, she’d been the only one in med bay, deep into a medical textbook. She’d gotten used to studying late into the night shift, so much so that Jackson had assigned her to cover all night shifts because it didn’t make sense to waste the manpower when she would be there anyway. Also, the med bay usually sees a lot less activity nowadays than before. One person on duty was more than enough.

 

She’d heard him coming in, but she hadn’t looked up. She’d known it was him the second she’d sensed him. Bellamy is hard to miss — for her, at least.

 

She _had_ looked up when she’d heard the dull thud of the door to the med bay closing shut, eyes locking in on Bellamy’s face. He’d stood inside of the threshold, unmoving, one hand on the door handle as he stared at the floor.

 

They still didn’t speak, not when he was divesting her of her shirt or when she was yanking urgently at his pants, not when he’d pressed into her for the first time, their bodies finally joining in a rush of wet heat. They still didn’t speak when they’d climaxed, one after the other, their gasps and groans and grunts filling the air.

 

They still didn’t speak when they were pulling on their discarded clothes, downcast eyes focused on not looking at each other. He didn’t say anything when she turned away from the examination table, gathering up the few insignificant items that had fallen to the floor in their haste. She didn’t say anything when he shrugged his jacket back on and strode toward the door, tugging on the handle sharply and letting the crisp, cool air of the night rush into the room in the wake of his departure.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

They still didn’t speak after that.

 

They had fights, sometimes. They still do. That’s pretty much the only time they speak to each other anymore, with biting words delivered in frustrated bursts.

 

But these fights are rare, and she misses them the second they end, because they’re the only times she gets to see him looking at her. They’re the only times she doesn’t have to watch him patrolling the fences from a distance, or listen to him speak to a roomful of people that includes her without ever once looking directly at her. They’re the only times she doesn’t have to eat her meals or talk to Raven or her mother without feeling the weight of his gaze on her.

 

Fighting with him is the only time she gets to see him looking at her at the same time she’s looking at him.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

They still don’t speak now.

 

They fuck whenever they get a minute, whenever they manage to find a place to be alone. Sometimes it’s in his tent; most of the time, it’s in hers. He usually shows up at the med bay when he’s had a rough day, shutting the door with one hand and pulling his shirt off with the other. Last week, she’d yanked him into the storage closet across the hall from the armoury with no warning, forcing him to muffle his mouth with his own hand as she took his cock deep into her mouth and sucked hard. The day after that, he’d pressed her against the cold outer wall of the Ark and made her come hard on his fingers, clamping a large palm over her mouth when they’d heard voices of guards on patrol right around the corner and forcing a second orgasm out of her with a rough thumb on her clit, fingers not letting up on their relentless rhythm in and out of her soaked cunt.

 

She tries not to think about how much they say to each other in these stolen moments, behind closed doors and away from curious eyes. About how much they communicate in the near darkness of their rushed rendezvouses, with gasped breaths and muffled groans.

 

It figures. Even when they stop talking to one another, they can’t stop _talking_ to one another.

 

But she can’t help it. Neither can he.

 

She can’t help the desperate clutch of her hands — grappling on his shoulder blades when he’s moving above her; reaching around to tangle in the curls at the back of his neck as his lips and tongue wreak sweet havoc on her core.

 

She knows he can’t help the bruising pressure of his fingertips — on her hips or her ass when they’re in bed, across her shoulders to keep her in place as he snaps his hips into hers over the examination table, on her ankles as he’s sliding deep into her wet heat with her legs locked atop his shoulders.

 

Neither of them can help the moans and groans and sighs and pants that escape them when they’re pressed up against each other in some hidden corner of the Ark, his covered cock grinding maddeningly slowly into her bare, dripping pussy because he can’t wait to rid himself of clothing before needing to feel her against him. They can’t help the way their arms tighten around each other during release, pressing so close that it’s almost always bruising, and only relaxing several minutes after their bodies have come down from the high.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She can’t change him, she knows that. And he, he’s tried to change her mind so many times, changed her heart more than he knows. But he’s never tried to change _her_.

 

They are who they are, and they will destroy each other only as many times as they will put each other together.

 

Sometimes she thinks that maybe someday they’ll go back to the way they were. Before the Ark came down, before they’d ever even heard of Polis or Azgeda, when the sharing of smiles hadn’t felt like the breaking of hearts.

 

Maybe someday, they’ll even go back to the way they weren’t — shoving aside the past and the future and diving headfirst into each other without care for those under their charge, for those relying on them for their very lives.

 

But they are who they are, and they can’t go back.

 

**Author's Note:**

> virtual hugs will be gladly provided to anyone who needs them as much as i do. comment to claim your virtual hug.


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